“Poor shooting! Pitt, you there?” he called easily.
“Yes,” I said, stepping forward.
“My only mistake was in underestimating you, Pitt. One tiny mistake in an otherwise perfect plan. You haven’t won yet, but—my compliments, Pitt.”
I saw the flash as he fired, a roaring, brain-splitting streak of red, which hurled me like a blast into the pit of oblivion.
XXXVII
Of what took place on board during the rest of that night I had only the vaguest of knowledge. Once I had an indistinct impression of consciousness, such as one may have through the film of opiates. Dr. Olson was explaining to some one that it was a pretty close call, considering that it wasn’t going to amount to anything. Brack’s bullet had struck me under the angle of the left jaw, had ranged upward through the muscles of the neck and gone out squarely above the occiput.
“Those cuts in his leg will give him more trouble,” the doctor was saying.
My next impression was of hearing the same sharp report as had ushered me into unconsciousness. I smiled. My senses had cleared now and I was sure that what I fancied I heard was simply the echo of Brack’s shot in my disordered mind.
I sank gratefully back toward the slumber that invited me, and then— Crack! Crack-crack! Crack-crack-crack! Up on the after deck a perfect splatter of shots which seemed echoed from a distance, drove the sleepiness from my head.
I opened my eyes and sat up. I was in bed in my own stateroom, and the gray light of dawn was coming through the port-hole. From a distance far off came two more reports, and on the steel plates of the Wanderer’s after cabin resounded two heavy, dull blows.